


count our seconds (as we keep close, keep close)

by isuilde



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: 2020 post-graduation event but there shouldn’t be any Act 3 spoiler (i hope), Description of blood, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, past omi/nachi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27359353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: Fushimi Omi has loved enough to know the pain of losing them. Even with Tsuzuru now, it’s probably only a matter of time.Tsuzuru, though, wouldn’t let him stray far.(or: in the wake of someone’s accident, Omi copes.)
Relationships: Fushimi Omi/Minagi Tsuzuru
Comments: 15
Kudos: 68





	count our seconds (as we keep close, keep close)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday Omi, I love you, but what better time would it be to write you crying other than your birthday? :D
> 
> (aka this is the indulgent crying omi i wanted)

It’s a particularly cold day around the end of October. Only a few days shy from Mankai Company’s short play scheduled for a certain high school’s cultural festival, around the time when students begin to wear their winter uniform and people swap their summer blouses and shirts for warmer sweaters and jackets, when the air smells pleasantly of blooming Osmanthus and baked sweet potatoes. A colder day than usual, but pleasant, nonetheless.

On such a day, Minagi Tsuzuru gets hit by a car.

**\-----o0o-----**

“Omi-kun.”

Omi blinks. There’s a familiar bowl of rice crackers on the coffee table—he’d placed it himself two days ago, after a trip for a wedding photoshoot in Hiroshima. It’s been largely untouched because the dorm residents seem to prefer the batch of cookies he baked yesterday. It makes him feel kind of flattered, really, but now that he’s looking at the rice crackers, they seem sad and lonely, sitting in the center of the common room waiting to be eaten.

“Omi-kun.”

The couch feels oddly too cushy under his bottom, like it’s about to swallow him whole if he doesn’t sit straighter right now. So he does, and then belatedly realizes, oh, someone is calling him.

Then his gaze shifts to the source of the voice, and finds Taichi standing close by, one hand holding out a towel and another holding a set of neatly-folded clothes—probably snagged from whatever is sitting on top of Omi’s dresser. He blinks at it again, then at Taichi, and says, “Yeah?”

He thinks he tries to smile, but his lips feel oddly numb, so he’s not sure if he manages. Probably not, judging from the way Taichi’s face twists into concern.

“Tsumugi-san,” blue eyes flits quickly to somewhere behind Omi, before returning to hold Omi’s gaze. “Said you guys should take a bath and wash off. Since, um…”

Taichi trails off, dropping his gaze to Omi’s hands, and Omi tries to not follow where Taichi is looking. Instead he stares past Taichi, to where Juuza is crouching by the kitchen counter with Muku standing next to him with a towel as well and Kumon crouched on Juuza’s other side, clutching at his brother’s arm so hard his knuckles are turning white. There’s a deep red stain over the fabric of Juuza’s left knee, blending onto the dark blue and dyeing it darker into a shade closer than black.

Juuza looks scared. It’s such an unfamiliar look that it looks like his facial muscles don’t quite know how to make such an expression and instead just tug at the lines of his eyebrows and the corners of his lips awkwardly. Omi would have found it amusingly adorable, normally, except—

He drops his gaze to his hands, too. Dyed with faint red, with the strong scent of tang still filling his nose, and the back of his mind hysterically tells him: Sakyo would be furious if he permanently stains the couch with Tsuzuru’s blood.

“There’s food in the fridge,” Tsumugi’s voice comes with a hand on Omi’s shoulder. It startles him a little, but the weight of that palm grounds him enough to keep him from jolting up. “If you feel like eating…?”

Eating is an odd concept he feels like he can’t fathom. He nods anyway, turning back to the towel in Taichi’s hand and takes it, legs moving almost automatically to the bath. He can hear Taichi’s steps following suit behind him, half-hesitant shufflings after his own too-loud steps against the smooth floorings as they step out of the dorm’s common room and into the corridors. The door clicks shut quietly behind Taichi’s back, and the younger boy looks up at him.

“It’ll be okay, Omi-kun,” he says, but it sounds like he’s convincing himself. “Right? He’ll be fine.”

**\-----o0o-----**

“He’ll be fine,” the Director says when she finally gets home at one in the morning to a common room too full with anxious company members. There is exhaustion and stress marring the soft lines of her face, an exact mirror of the look in Sakyo’s face as he trails in after her, closing the door behind him. 

“He’ll be fine,” Sakyo repeats to the horrible silence in the room filled with more than 20 people, and then turns to Omi and places a hand on Omi’s arm.

Sakyo’s grip is steady, but his fingers dig painfully into Omi’s skin. The pain feels oddly surreal. “I’ll take you there first thing in the morning.”

Omi thinks he answers, but he doesn’t quite remember hearing himself, so he might have not answered after all.

**\-----o0o-----**

When Omi comes home from Hiroshima, it’s to a zombie Tsuzuru stuck in-between the fridge and the kitchen counter, arms draping possessively over the still-whirring coffee machine and holding it hostage, eyes almost permanently closed as his body sways dangerously from right to left to right again, making sleepy rumbling noises every time he catches his balance.

Omi places the paper bag filled with snacks and souvenirs from Hiroshima onto the kitchen counter with a laugh and catches his boyfriend into his arms from behind. He sweeps the coffee machine from Tsuzuru’s hold in one smooth motion and carefully returns it to where it belongs, careful of the cable looping around Tsuzuru’s wrist, and gently extracts Tsuzuru away from the small alcove between the kitchen counter and the fridge. Tsuzuru makes an offended noise, hands flailing towards the coffee machine, and Omi traps them under his own hands, laughter rumbling in his throat.

“How dare,” Tsuzuru mumbles, but that’s as far as his brain goes, it seems, because when he opens his eyes to squint up at the hero ruining his plan to conquer the coffee machine, it’s only to fix Omi an accusing look. Honestly, Omi can’t help but drop a kiss in between Tsuzuru’s eyes, and etch against the skin, “I’m home,” with a chuckle.

“Coffee,” Tsuzuru grumps, but he doesn’t pull away when Omi draws him for a proper kiss instead of letting him go back to the coffee machine. His arm winds around Omi’s waist and sighs happily into the kiss, and somewhere in-between, a “welcome home” is lost in between the air they share.

There’s a newly printed copy of the script for the mixed troupe short play scheduled for a nearby high school’s cultural festival abandoned on the dining table. Omi takes it after hauling a completely asleep Tsuzuru back to room 102 and delivers it to the Director’s room afterwards, but she hands it back to him with a laugh and tells him Tsuzuru’s already given her a copy fifteen minutes ago.

“I left him in the kitchen since he said he wants to stay up a bit longer and wait up for you,” she says, eyes twinkling. “I think this is Tsuzuru-kun’s copy.”

“I see,” Omi says, and tries not to think at how hot his cheeks feel. “I guess I’ll… hold on to it for him?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You know Masumi-kun went home tonight to spend time with his visiting grandmother, right?”

**\-----o0o-----**

The asphalt feels oddly hot under his knees, searing past the fabric of his jeans. 

He hears Juuza by his side, yelling at his phone while simultaneously shouting at the people around them to back the fuck off or he will punch them in the face. There’s the sound of sobbed-out apologies on the verge of hysterics, and the buzzing noise of the crowd asking, instructing, calling. There’s his own voice, then, shaking the way his fingers are as they bunch around the familiar green parka, trembling as he forms the three syllables of his boyfriend’s name.

“Tsuzuru.”

He feels the slightest puff of Tsuzuru’s breath as his thumb passes over Tsuzuru’s nose, dragging blood to the corner of Tsuzuru’s lips. It’s darker than the color of the roses Tsumugi places by the genkan. Or perhaps it’s just because how pale Tsuzuru looks.

“Tsuzuru.”

 _Please_ , he thinks, but the word never makes it past his lips. It feels to much like a hopeless prayer that it terrifies him. Tsuzuru’s still breathing. His pulse still beats softly under the tip of Omi’s trembling forefinger pressed against the pulse point just under his jaw. If he would just wake up, he will be okay.

“Tsuzuru.”

Someone in the crowd reaches out, tries to touch Tsuzuru’s hand, and Omi hears Juuza snarl. Hears Juuza push the guy hard enough that he falls back on his ass into the crowd. He can’t bring himself to look up, though, can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from Tsuzuru’s pale face, from the puddle of red blood around his head—a small lake the shade of blooming spider lilies, vivid and vibrant like life itself, drained out of Tsuzuru’s body.

“Tsuzuru.”

Tsuzuru doesn’t wake up.

He hears the echo of an ambulance in the distance.

“Tsuzuru.”

**\-----o0o----**

“Someone pushed him,” Juuza says, taut anger in each line of his body. “Not—not Tsuzuru-san, directly, but the girl. Who bumped into him. It’s not an accident.”

They haven’t talked about it. Hours after the Director and Sakyo sent him and Juuza home from the hospital, after Taichi ushers him to the bath, after Guy fixes him something to eat and yet he doesn’t touch, he still hasn’t said a word about what happened. He goes to stand in the kitchen instead, palms flat against the empty counter, and just breathes.

“Juuza-kun, that’s a very serious—” Sakuya’s voice breaks, the words trailing off into nothing, a nervous intake of breath. “That sounds like—”

“Like someone is trying to kill him,” Yuki finishes, the most concise and precise as usual when it comes to words, but his face twists into something grim. Next to him, Tenma’s face turns at least two shades paler.

“I saw it,” Juuza grits out, fists tight on the dining table, and then his breath catches. “I didn’t think—”

The entire room drowns in silence for a moment, until Chikage’s voice sounds from the corner of the room, tone almost dangerously too level: “Did you see the guy, too, Omi?”

Beneath his eyelids is the surprise in Tsuzuru’s eyes, the half-formed smile and the first syllable of his name clinging to Tsuzuru’s lips, the half-raised hand of an aborted wave. A split second of warmth that fills his chest, and then the freezing fear that grips his entire being. Omi inhales sharply, raises his head, and only realizes that he’s been keeping his eyes closed when he opens them to meet the gaze of everyone in the room.

“No,” he says, or thinks he does, but no one else says anything, and so he probably hasn’t said anything at all.

**\-----o0o-----**

In the morning, a sleepy Minagi Meguru rises to his feet from where he’s been sitting in the uncomfortable hospital waiting chair with a tight smile when he sees them approaching. The Director hands him a plastic bag containing sandwiches, which Meguru accepts with a soft thank-you, and then he turns to Omi. 

“Sorry,” he says, one hand scratching the back of his head. “About yesterday. I wasn’t—“

“No,” Omi says, quickly, both fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He remembers Meguru’s fingers digging into his shoulders, shaking him, hurling demanding words that he doesn’t want to remember now. “You were right.”

Meguru’s eyes turn sad. “I wasn’t,” he tells Omi, and reaches out to pat him on the shoulder. Omi barely keeps himself from flinching, for a split-second thrown back to the memory of last night—Meguru’s panicked look as he storms into the hospital waiting room with both Minagi parents, making a beeline to where Omi stands with red blood still sticking to his hands, snagging him by both shoulders and shaking him hard, eyes furious and fearful and voice harsh, _you were with him! What the hell happened? You were with him!_

Omi breathes and thinks, maybe that’s exactly the problem.

**——-o0o——-**

They see Tsuzuru as they reached the middle of the crossing bridge just off to the east side gate of Yousei University.

Work had ended early since a photoshoot had been cancelled, and so Omi had dropped by his almamater to see how the photography club is doing. He’d bumped into Juuza, who was on his way back to campus to catch the fourth period, and they had gone up the crossing bridge instead of waiting for the pedestrian crossing light to turn green. It’s when Omi lets his steps halt when they crosses the bridge halfway to the other side, looking down to admire the color contrasts of scarves that match the vibrant red and yellow of the trees towering over the pedestrian walk all the way to the road, when Juuza makes a sound and says, “Oh, Tsuzuru-san.”

It isn’t hard to find Tsuzuru’s familiar green parka among the crowds of students waiting by the crossroads for the pedestrian lights to turn green. He looks extremely sleepy, Omi thinks, amusement tugging at his lips as he watches Tsuzuru rub at his eyes and hugs the books in his arms closer. He fishes out his phone and sends a message then: just a LIME sticker, one that would shower Tsuzuru’s screen with hearts and confetti, and then a short message of _i see you, look up_.

Down within the crowd, Tsuzuru fumbles with his phone and slides a finger across. Then he looks up, head turning the other way before snapping back towards where the crossing bridge is, eyes finding Omi’s own quickly, and Omi grins, mouths Tsuzuru’s name, and waves.

The surprise in Tsuzuru’s eyes morphs into excitement as he raises his hand, mouth opening, and Omi waits for the sound of his name to make it out of Tsuzuru’s lips.

Except it never does.

Instead, three things happen almost simultaneously:

One, an SUV speeds down the road to chase the last few seconds of the green light in an attempt to pass the crossroads before the light blinks red.

Two, the girl standing behind Tsuzuru, who only has her eyes solely on her phone, violently stumbles forward, and in her attempt to regain her balance, presses her palms flat against Tsuzuru’s back to push herself back to her feet.

Three, Tsuzuru’s half-raised hand flails and his body sways forward past the line of the pedestrian walk, right into the range of the SUV speeding down, screeching as it tries to swerve sideways and avoid the collision to no avail.

Someone screams, and Omi watches as the car hits, watches Tsuzuru’s body being thrown sideways like a rag doll, suspended in the air for a split second before gravity pulls it back down with with a sickening crunch, and then nothing.

For a second, no one moves. For a second, time freezes and Omi can’t breathe. For a second, everything blurs into a surreality that seems more believable than what he’s seeing.

And then time forcefully pushes itself forward and the throngs of people close in to where Tsuzuru’s body lie still, unmoving in a pool of dark red on the asphalt. Juuza shouts, but Omi barely recognizes his voice as his feet move on their own accords and he pushes against the curious onlookers stopping, gathering, gawking.

He doesn’t remember flying down the crossing bridge’s sets of stairs. Doesn’t remember pushing aside the crowds standing around the body lying prone on his back, or kneeling down by Tsuzuru’s head. But he remembers seeing the familiar backpack crushed on one side, the books and papers strewn all over the side of the road. And Juuza calling. Juuza shouting. Juuza screaming. He remembers hearing that, remembers how it sounds like--the fear clinging in the harsh tone, the panic in each sharp intake of breath--but he doesn’t remember the words.

What he remembers is the searing heat of asphalt under his knee, the scent of copper so thick he can taste it at the back of his throat, and Tsuzuru’s cheek, sticky with blood under the tips of his fingers.

 _What happened_ , he thinks hours and hours later, the way a drowning man rewinds the last few seconds before they slip into the cold embrace of water, half-conscious but doesn’t really feel like it. Meguru’s fingers are digging painfully into his shoulders, shaking him hard, and Juuza’s trying to step in between them, to push Meguru off him, and yet all Omi can think is _what happened_.

 _You were with him_ , Meguru accuses, all raw anger and fear and that’s all Omi remembers.

**\-----o0o-----**

Tsuzuru once tells him, “It’s nice to see you not keeping others at an arm length anymore like you used to, Fushimi-san.”

It makes him pause, the hand flitting through the rows of bottles of spices halting for a brief moment. “I did?”

Omi has loved enough. His mother, who passed away in the hospital bed, her hand clasped in his own. Nachi, who was snatched away from him in the blink of an eye, his last shadow a blur of the harsh wind and a smear of red on the asphalt. He’s loved enough to know the fear of losing a loved one, to know the pain and despair of having them slip through his fingers. He’s loved enough to grow scared of loving someone else, and learn how to place himself at a certain distance from those around him.

Until Mankai Company, that is. And he doesn’t even realize it until Tsuzuru says those words; a comment that sounds plain as the day, as normal as a remark about the weather, like the words hadn’t just exposed the side of him that Omi had thought he kept hidden pretty well.

Tsuzuru looks up at him from where he perches in front of the kitchen counter and smiles sheepishly. “Maybe not,” he says, and it’s cute, the way a soft shade of red dusts his cheeks. Omi stares as it spreads all the way to the tips of his ears as Tsuzuru places his pen down on the notebook he’s writing on and holds Omi’s gaze almost defiantly. “Maybe I just wished I could have you closer.”

Omi has loved enough people to know the pain of losing them. He’s thought it’s probably better if he just keeps silent the next time he loves someone, because then maybe it won’t be too painful when he inevitably loses them. Except he recognizes the half-crafted challenge in Tsuzuru’s eyes, albeit an uncertain one, and that’s how he knows: this isn’t just a confession.

This is Tsuzuru saying: _I think you like me_ . This is Tsuzuru riling him up: _come closer and have me_.

His hand leaves the spice racks and instead reaches out to frame Tsuzuru’s face. There’s a split-second of second-guessing himself, then, but Tsuzuru tilts his head just so, the corner of his lips pressing against the center of Omi’s palm, and Omi can’t stop himself from saying it.

“I love you,” he tells Tsuzuru, and something in his chest melts as he feels Tsuzuru’s lips curve into a smile against his palm. Tsuzuru’s eyelashes rests against the tip of his forefinger as the younger man chuckles shakily, burying the shaky exhale as tension bleeds out his shoulders. When he opens his eyes to hold Omi’s gaze over the kitchen counter, they twinkle.

“I confessed first.”

**\-----o0o----**

Tsuzuru’s hospital room is at the end of a white, too-quiet corridor to the left of the elevator.

“He’s awake,” Meguru says softly, after he slips into the room to check on his brother and comes out again only about a minute later, this time with an amused look on his face. “He’s just a bit, uh. Out of it? Doped on painkillers, so. He didn’t recognize Mom earlier, so if that happens, you know, don’t let it get to you.”

The Director opens the door and pops her head in, then leans back to look at Omi. “I’ll be really quick,” she says, promises, with a smile. “I’ll let him know you’re going in, okay?”

It’s her own thoughtful kindness, one that she offers without him having to say anything, and he’s thankful for it. For the extra minute to prepare himself, to maybe put on a smile, or perhaps reassuring words if needed. He murmurs “thank you,” but she doesn’t return it with a smile so maybe he hasn’t actually said it out loud after all. He doesn’t quite remember how it feels to form words.

The five minutes she spends inside feels like a blink of an eye. There’s an odd, faded, crayon-like blue stain on the otherwise spotless wall under the metal placate that informs him of the room number, and the image burns into the back of his mind instead of other things. Other important things, like Meguru giving Sakyo a brief summary of what the Doctor says-- _life was never in danger, no, just broken ribs and an arm, and a severe concussion, that’s why there was so much blood, we’re lucky it’s not worse than that, considering_ \--

And then Sakyo’s hand on his back, a small gesture of encouragement, and when Omi looks up, the Director is holding the door open. “Go on,” she says, remnants of laughter clinging on the corner of her lips. “He’ll be happy to see you, no doubt.”

Tsuzuru is awake, when Omi steps in and closes the door behind him. On the third step, he realizes there’s a constant murmuring hanging in the air--slurred words under gentle, if slightly out of breath. It takes him a while to recognize that it’s dialogues: disjointed ones, random lines Tsuzuru had once crafted into scripts: _let’s go together, Julius!_ and _The bounty for his head is one million dollars!_ and _You are my mirror, Holmes_ , and _Didn’t you know, I started a delivery service!_

The murmuring pauses when Omi reaches the bedside, hesitantly resting a hand on the bed rail, and Tsuzuru blinks up sleepily at him.

“Oh,” he says, softly, then looks confused. “I know you.”

“You do,” Omi tells him, or thinks he does, but he isn’t sure if the words actually make it past his lips. Tsuzuru scrunches up his face like he’s concentrating hard, and something tugs at the corners of Omi’s frozen lips, trying to make it curve upwards, except he seems to have forgotten how. 

“Hmm,” Tsuzuru mutters, then raises his good hand to poke Omi’s finger, curled around the rail. He squints at Omi, like he’s carefully considering him, and then drops his voice into a stage-whisper: “Tell you a secret.”

“A secret,” Omi repeats, because apparently that’s all his brain is good for, now. He stares at Tsuzuru, who looks down at his left arm in cast, lying uselessly on his side, and begins poking on it lightly. He thinks he should probably stop Tsuzuru from doing that, since he might hurt himself further. Probably. But his fingers won’t uncurl from the rail, won’t close the last few inches between him and Tsuzuru’s shoulder, and he isn’t sure why.

“M’going to escape,” Tsuzuru whispers conspiratorially. “I’ve things t’do, outside. People to meet. Meat to eat--hah,” he snickers under his breath until he has to wheeze for air, and even then, laughter still clings to his words. “Citron-san’ll love that.”

It feels unfair, that Tsuzuru doesn’t recognize him but remembers Citron. Omi dwells on the thought, but it flits away quickly, like the bushy tail of one of the cats that follows Hisoka home, slipping in-between his feet, and Omi can’t seem to catch the emotions fast enough. So he stays on the repeating mode--it feels route, safe. “Things to do….?”

Tsuzuru stops poking at his cast, eyes turning serious. “I’m. I’ve to. Tell him m’not leaving anywhere, or he’ll--” he sucks in a quick breath, and Omi sees the lines of his face morph into worry. “Need t’tell him--”

Then Tsuzuru pauses. Stares at Omi, wide-eyed, awe and surprise clear in his look, and says, “You’re crying.”

Omi blinks. “Huh?”

He doesn’t feel like he’s crying. But sure enough, there are salty droplets falling from his eyes, making damp patches on Tsuzuru’s white blankets, rolling down the back of his hand that curls around the rail. He blinks, lets more of them fall in nothing more than confusion, and Tsuzuru’s hand reaches up, curling on Omi’s jacket and pulls down. Omi follows the tug as if it’s gravity, and Tsuzuru’s hand moves up to frame his face, the tip of his finger damp against the corner of Omi’s eyes.

Tsuzuru stares unblinkingly at him and whispers, sounding positively awed, “Beautiful.”

**\-----o0o-----**

He dreams of Nachi. 

Nachi and echoes of laughter so free, carried by the breeze as they ride down the city outskirts, bikes roaring loud in the silence of summer night, so nostalgic, so beloved. The flex of his muscles under his jacket as he pulls his bike to a stop, the grin that first peeks from underneath the helmet when he flips it up. His name, clinging familiarly to the corners of Nachi’s lips.

It is a blessing when he wakes up at this part of the dream, because then he’ll have tears pooling under his eyelashes when he opens his eyes, but also a smile etched on his lips. He used to think of it as a kiss Nachi leaves before the dream ends, playful and fleeting the way he had always been. A reminder that Nachi is with him every step of the way.

If the dream continues from there, though, it becomes a nightmare.

A familiar bike thrown over by the side of the road, engine still on and wheels still rolling. A helmet stained in red by an unmoving hand. The sharp, tangy scent of blood mixed with the awful smell of burnt rubber and fuel. The asphalt, turning into a lake of copper. Nachi’s body, slumped in a horrifying angle, face contorted in pain and eyes empty.

Omi knows he shouldn’t know this, shouldn’t have any memory of this because he never did see Nachi’s face when the accident happened. Or perhaps he did, and he just doesn’t remember, and the nightmare forces him to. His imagination definitely does the rest, though, because that is when Nachi says, all hollow eyes and voice, “It shouldn’t have been me.”

When Omi wakes up from these nightmares, it’s not with tears. It’s with a strangled gasp and a crushing sense of emptiness, grief solid in his throat like he’s being choked alive, and the terrifying whisper in the back of his head: _it should have been me_.

**\-----o0o-----**

There are three huge plates of onigiri when the three of them finally arrive back to the dorm. The culprits are predictably still standing behind the kitchen counter, hands as messy as the ingredients scattered all over the kitchen but smiles brighter than the summer sun.

“Welcome back!” Misumi and Citron chorus, proudly gesturing to the feast on the table. “We made onigiri!”

Sakyo stares at the table, then to the kitchen counter where it looks like a week worth of groceries have been pulled out from the refrigerator and scattered all over, and says, very blandly, “I can see that.”

“Seven different stuffings!” Citron exclaims, and then drops his voice to a stage whisper, “It’s like Russian Roulette, ne! If you get the extra super spicy salmon the punishment is eating our mystery onigiri!”

The Director laughs. “I don’t think that’s how Russian Roulette works,” she says, and crosses over to the kitchen, clearly intent on salvaging what she could before Sakyo loses himself to the storm brewing over his head. “What is mystery onigiri? Can I put this back in the fridge?”

He finds himself drifting over not to the kitchen, oddly. Perhaps it’s just too full of people now. Too messy. Or perhaps it’s the abandoned script sitting on the lounge’s coffee table that calls him over--another copy of the one for the school festival play, this one rather worn and dog-eared compared to the one Tsuzuru owns, which still sits on his desk in his room. He’s forgotten to return it. Tsuzuru never asked, either. He should--

“That’s mine,” Misumi’s voice comes, bursting the haze settling over his head, and Omi blinks. He’s taken the script to his hands some time in the few moments he stands by the table, or perhaps just before Misumi speaks--he doesn’t remember. He turns to Misumi, who moves to perch on the couch’s arm comfortable, looking up at Omi with a smile. “Tsuzuru gave me a triangle role, like I asked!”

It takes a moment before it clicks--Phytagoras. Tsuzuru had given the role of Phytagoras to Misumi, which no doubt had sent the older man over the moon. He looks at the script, eyes tracing the words _A Play by Minagi Tsuzuru_ on the cover. Another one of Tsuzuru’s love letters to their company members. Another one of the worlds inside his head coming to life.

“Here, swap!”

There’s an onigiri in Misumi’s hand, held out expectantly towards him. Omi looks at it for a moment, like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do, and Misumi grins. He snatches the script from Omi’s hand and pushes the onigiri into it instead. “It’s grilled salmon. You need to eat something, Omi~”

“Thank you,” Omi says, or pretty sure he says, because Misumi brightens. He takes a bite, mostly because Misumi is looking at him with such expectation, and then another, even though everything tastes just bland in his mouth. Then another, until he can taste the charred salmon, the bitterness stabbing sharply onto his tongue, and he almost laughs because at least that tastes like something.

“It’s good,” he murmurs, and takes another bite under Misumi’s gaze.

Misumi’s smile turns a little sad, but he reaches up to pat Omi on the head. “Thank you~”

Omi tries a smile for that. He can’t not, at the comforting gesture.

It feels too stiff, too odd on his lips. 

**\-----o0o-----**

The first night he spends with Tsuzuru at a rather cheap business hotel, he wakes up with tears and a smile tugging on his lips.

“Fushimi-san,” Tsuzuru’s whisper is layered in worry, and Omi blinks away the tears enough to recognize the blinking red numbers on the bedside clock: four-thiry in the morning. They blur away as fresh tears gather in the corners of his eyes, and he feels Tsuzuru shift in his arms, propping himself up enough to look at Omi in concern. “Fushimi-san…?”

“I’m okay,” Omi murmurs, the smile still etched on his lips--a kiss Nachi left for the night, he thinks.

Tsuzuru kisses the smile into a laugh, and also the tears away, and Omi is more than fine with that.

**\-----o0o-----**

“Omi-san,” Juuza calls, then hesitates, then says, “Nevermind.”

The police came over when he was at the hospital this morning, he hears from Muku. “They talked to Juu-chan,” he tells him, “but they kind of dismiss what Juu-chan said about--about the girl being pushed. By someone else.”

They haven’t talked. Not a word, beside what Juuza had gritted out the night after the accident (or not accident, but there is so much implication in that that Omi isn’t ready to consider yet), and Omi is rather thankful that Juuza hasn’t cornered him to actually verbalize what he’d seen. What they had seen. He’s not sure he’ll be able to recount it when he barely remembers it.

Or maybe he remembers. Like Nachi’s face, all hollow eyes over the lake of copper. He just doesn’t--

“Here,” Guy says, and a tiny plate of pickles appears in front of him. He looks up, just in time for Azuma to slide him a tiny glass of umeshu. Their gazes feel older, and Omi wonders if this is how the younger company members feel when he rounds them up to make sure that they eat something for the night. Next to him, Muku shifts, curious eyes looking at the glass, and Azuma tsks at him with an amused laugh.

It feels oddly normal, but also not. But he doesn’t want to dwell on that, yet, so he takes the chopsticks and puts a piece of pickles into his mouth. The strong taste of vinegar, the heat of spices underlining it--it’s good, but muted. He tastes them, except he doesn’t quite remember, later, how they taste like. And he thinks that’s probably fine, for now.

A bit longer, a voice in the back of his mind says. Just a bit longer.

 **\-----o0o-----**

Tsuzuru sleeps.

“He gets headaches,” Kaoru says, as he places the vase back onto the bedside table after changing the water. Omi recognizes the flowers--Tsumugi has them blooming in the inner garden, and he’d seen Itaru and Masumi spend some time this morning picking them up with Tsumugi’s careful hands guiding them. White dahlias contrasting red ones--gratitude, Tsumugi had explained as he handed the flowers to Masumi, for the brilliance he’d given us--and among them the amethyst sage--for the family love they hold, Tsumugi told Itaru as he arranged them among the dahlias--winding around the purple arrowroots. A prayer for cheerfulness, for the liveliness to be back.

He stares at them, distantly wonders if he should have gotten flowers, too.

“He still confuses us sometimes, and loses his train of thought a lot. Sometimes he just says something over and over. Doctor says it’s normal symptoms of severe concussion and not to worry.”

Kaoru steps back and takes a seat by Tsuzuru’s bed, right across Omi, and smiles. “He was asking about you this morning.”

“He did?” Omi echoes, or thinks he does, but Kaoru doesn’t elaborate so maybe he never actually lets the words out of his mouth after all. Instead, the younger boy busies himself fixing the blankets around Tsuzuru’s feet, and Omi curls his fingers around Tsuzuru’s wrist, a thumb over where the pulse point beats rhythmically under the skin.

Across him, Kaoru reaches for the book on the bedside table and settles in his chair. Normally, the younger boy would have a lot to talk to him, be it tips of working with knives in the kitchen, trivias of Tsuzuru, or the latest news of Minagi family, but not this time. Instead, he reads and says nothing. Omi is thankful for that--for the silence that allows him to listen to Tsuzuru’s breath, for the quiet that lets him concentrate on the beat of the pulse under his fingertip.

 _Kaoru’s like Mom,_ Tsuzuru once told him. _Too perceptive at times, but good at not making you feel bad about it._

He wonders if Tsuzuru would have given him an amused look if he were awake now.

**\-----o0o-----**

He’s watched Tsuzuru sleep a lot of times.

Contrary to what people might believe, when he sleeps peacefully, Tsuzuru doesn’t have the best sleeping manners. He doesn’t kick, thankfully, but he does toss around in his sleep, enough that the blankets never stay in place. Omi’s learned that the most effective way to sleep with Tsuzuru is to trap him within his arms and keep Tsuzuru’s feet tangled with his own so Tsuzuru would stop pushing their blankets away. Not that that’s a hardship.

On the times when he just collapses after a few all-nighters or after he finishes a script, however, Tsuzuru sleeps like the dead. At times like this, Omi finds himself slipping into Room 102 more often after they start going out, checking up on the sleeping Tsuzuru with no particular reason. Perhaps he just likes being amused by the drool insistently clinging to the corner of Tsuzuru’s mouth. Perhaps he just wishes Tsuzuru to wake up sooner.

Perhaps it’s to appease the persistent remnants of fear crackling within him—the one telling him that to love is to lose, and that even with Tsuzuru, it’s only a matter of time.

**\-----o0o-----**

Minagi Tadoru appears, out of all places, at Omi’s workplace.

It’s the first day Omi’s back to work since the accident, half-dazedly going through a photoshoot and working through the files afterwards. Honestly, if it weren’t for his understanding seniors, he would probably have been sent home on his third hour, considering the countless mistakes he’s been making.

So Tadoru appearing by the fifth hour, a travel bag slung over his shoulder and exhaustion in the lines of his face, must have felt like a godsend for his seniors.

“Fushimi, take a half day,” is all his senior says, shoving his bag at him and with a pat on his shoulder, pushes him towards Tadoru. “Okay? Bye.”

Tadoru, when their eyes meet, grins despite the fatigue clearly weighing him down. “Hey.”

They leave Omi’s workplace without much words exchanged--not very unusual, because while Tadoru gives off an easygoing, easy-to-approach aura, he doesn’t actually talk as much as Meguru does. With exception of work-related matters or when he’s teasing someone, of course. Omi follows him quietly all the way to the station, doesn’t ask any question when Tadoru leads him to the train line that would bring them back to Mankai Dorm.

“I haven’t gone to the hospital,” Tadoru muses as the train door closes behind their backs. None of them makes any move towards the empty seats--Omi thinks they probably should, since they’re most probably blocking the door. But there are barely two other people in the train car, so it’s probably okay too. He glances at the display screen above the door: _Next, Akebonobashi Station. This is the local train towards--_

The train jostles, and Omi almost stumbles back. Tadoru’s hand rests on his elbow, a reflexive move to steady him, and that’s when Omi catches sight of the small shoulder pouch hanging by Tadoru’s waist. The flap is thrown back and the zipper is open, and he can see the dark red corner of a passport peeking over it. 

Tadoru notices. “Ah, yeah. I just flew in. Egypt was fun.” He shoves the passport deeper into the pouch and zips it up properly. “I asked the Director for your workplace’s address. Sorry to surprise you like that.”

“It’s okay,” Omi mutters, drops his gaze to the floor when Tadoru looks at him. There’s something about Tadoru that somehow intimidates him despite how laidback the older man is--a certain threatenint aura that stays in the lazy lines of his figure. Meguru feels so much more straightforward and easy, in comparison. “Are you not…?”

“Going to the hospital?” Tadoru hums. “I was going to, but Meguru’s there anyway so I’ll just take the shift after him. Figured I should do something better.” He leans back against the door, eyes following the blur of cityscapes behind the glass. “Meguru said he feels bad.”

Omi blinks up at him, confused. Tadoru smiles. “For yelling at you that night.”

 _What the hell happened_ , Omi remembers, and it feels like Meguru’s fingers are still digging deep into his shoulder. He takes a breath, lets them out in a shudder, and drags a hand over his face, swaying sideways until his side hits the pole by the seats. Tadoru catches his gaze for a second, but Omi runs from them by closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, prays that his voice doesn’t sound as broken as he feels.

Tadoru watches him carefully. “You were with him.”

It’s a fact. Perhaps also an underlying accusation, but a fact nonetheless. “I’m sorry,” he says, again, even if he’s not sure what he’s sorry for. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a sigh, deep with exhaustion and resignation. He opens his eyes to see Tadoru looking up at the screen display-- _Next: Shinjuku Sanchoume Station_ \--and wonders how it is that Tadoru looks twice older like that.

“Alright,” Tadoru says, and nods to himself before turning to Omi with a small smile. “You’re forgiven.”

The train pulls smoothly into a stop. Overhead, the speaker blares with a feminine voice in English, enunciating the station’s name as the door across from them slides open with a hiss. It should drown out the tired chuckle escaping Tadoru’s lips, and yet, Omi hears it clearly.

Something in him trembles with relief. It feels simultaneously foreign and familiar, but it also lodges everything all at once within his throat--the guilt, the helplessness, the fear--and for the first time in days, his face finally twists into something. He presses a hand against his face, tries to breathe through the violent sweep of emotions.

Tadoru’s hand rests on his shoulder. “You know what,” he says, voice thoughtful. “I changed my mind. I’m sure Utsuki can wait, so let’s just go to the hospital.”

**\-----o0o-----**

They bump into Meguru on the way up to Tsuzuru’s room. Meguru splutters and almost dumps his cup of coffee on Omi when he sees Tadoru grinning behind Omi’s back.

“Aniki!” he exclaims, and in that split-second, Omi sees a flash of a child in his expression—not an older brother, not a husband, simply a child, relieved to see his older brother is back. “You’re home?”

“Just flew in,” Tadoru says, and steps forward to pull Meguru into a hug. Meguru miraculously manages to hand over his cup of coffee to Omi to save it before it gets crushed between his and Tadoru’s body. “Thanks for holding the fort.”

“You smell,” Meguru complains, but his eyes are misty and it takes him a second to let go of Tadoru’s hug. Even then, his fingers tangle on Tadoru’s jacket and don’t let go. It reminds Omi of how raptured Tsuzuru always looks at the TV whenever Meguru appears on the sports news. “Did you call Mom and Dad?”

Tadoru nods. “I was gonna do some other things before coming here, but seeing this guy,” he gestures at Omi, and Meguru’s eyes fly up to meet Omi’s own. “Makes me want to check up on you guys first. How is Tsuzuru?”

“Better,” Meguru says, and reaches out to take his cup of coffee back as he smiles at Omi. “He’s awake and lucid, actually, which is good. Speaking of which, one of Autumn Troupe members is in there right now.”

“Oh?” Tadoru tilts his head in wonder, and glances up at Omi. “Sakyo-san?”

“No,” Meguru says as he leads them into the elevator, and right before the door closes with a ding, continues: “Hyoudou Juuza.”

**——-o0o——-**

“You’re so far,” Tsuzuru tells Omi; his lips a small bow curving into a smile pasted on still too-white skin. Not the too-white color that comes with the magic touch in Azami’s makeup skills, but the kind that speaks of pain and close-encounters.

It unnerves him. It’s odd, considering he’s visited Tsuzuru in the hospital every day ever since the accident, and somehow seeing a pale Tsuzuru calmly looking at him from the hospital bed unnerves him more than when he watched a dead-asleep Tsuzuru yesterday. Maybe that’s why his feet won’t move from where he stands just by the door, even after Tsuzuru’s brothers and Juuza decided to leave the room.

“Fushimi-san,” Tsuzuru says, a touch of exasperation in his voice. “Why are you standing so far away?”

“Nothing,” Omi replies, or thinks he does, but he doesn’t hear his own voice so he probably didn’t. He takes a breath, looks at Tsuzuru in the eyes, and for a moment feels like he’s drowning in an ocean of terror. Maybe he shouldn’t come closer. Shouldn’t have anyone closer, not like this again, because he doesn’t think he can deal with this terror. Not like this, not when he can’t even answer _what the hell happened?!_ and _he was with you!_ and _did you see the guy, too?_

The distance between them is a mere four-steps, and yet Omi doesn’t know how to cross it.

He hears Tsuzuru sigh, too loud in the silence stretched out between them.

“I’ve wanted to see you since I woke up,” Tsuzuru says, fingers picking at the blanket pooling by his hips. “I feel like I saw you when I was half-asleep, but I can’t remember what I said.” He looks up at Omi, this time with a sheepish smile. “Director said I told her I was gonna escape from the hospital. Did I tell you that, too?”

Omi exhales. He doesn’t trust his voice, so he nods instead. 

Tsuzuru makes a thoughtful noise. “I guess it really was the only thing on my mind.”

It rips out an odd bark of laugh off Omi’s throat. It sounds more like a groan of a dying animal—rough and pained and so foreign—and he regrets it the moment the word passes his lips: “Escaping?”

Tsuzuru looks surprised for a moment, but then sobers up. Holds Omi’s gaze the way he does when he’s being stubborn, when he’s disagreeing with the Director over how a certain scene should be enacted, when he’s trying to get Masumi out of bed, when he sternly tells Taichi to keep out of the kitchen after he accidentally blows up an egg in the microwave.

“Finding you, actually. To tell you that I’m not going anywhere.”

Once, Banri had mused out loud to Omi about how unexpectedly, straightforwardly perceptive Tsuzuru is. In return, Omi had smiled and agreed, because he’d known that.

He’d known that, and yet those words still slam into him with such power, such weight, against the fear that clogs his throat. He shudders, for a moment teetering on the edge, almost unable to keep everything from spilling out: the regret, the fear, the guilt, the yearning, and he presses a hand onto his face, digs the heel of his hand against his eyes, and finally rasps out, “Tsuzuru…”

His voice, scratchy and so very exhausted, shaky in every syllable, wraps around Tsuzuru’s name like a plea. He’s not even sure what he’s asking for. Let him go, perhaps, because he can’t love Tsuzuru only to lose him. Go away, maybe, because while he doesn’t know how to close the four-steps distance that yawns between them, he also can’t bear to stretch it farther. He grits his teeth, pushing down all the emotions threatening to drown him, and thinks, _I can’t_.

Four steps away, Tsuzuru sighs, and says, too: “I can’t either.” 

A beat of pause, in which Omi realizes that he’d said that out loud, and then there’s a loud rustling of sheets and Tsuzuru continues: “I’m going over there.”

Omi’s head snaps up. “What—“

For someone who supposedly is recovering from severe concussion, Tsuzuru’s movements are remarkably quick. He’s on his feet before Omi could react, one broken arm hanging carefully over his chest and one good arm maneuvering around the IV tubes, letting blankets falling off the bed and hospital robes hanging just over his knees. A split-second in which Omi forgets to breathe, and Tsuzuru tries taking a step forward and promptly stumbles down.

There’s familiarity in the way his instincts kick in—how his feet propel him forward without hesitation, and how his arms wind around Tsuzuru’s middle as Omi catches him and accepts Tsuzuru’s weight against him. His knees bang painfully into the floor, but he manages to keep Tsuzuru from the mercy of gravity, fingers curling securely around Tsuzuru’s waist and one hand pressing Tsuzuru’s head into his chest, tucking it under his chin.

For a moment, all he hears is his own heartbeat thumping loudly.

Then Tsuzuru makes a sound, as his own arm winds around Omi’s middle and holds on, grasping Omi’s jacket firmly.

“You caught me.”

It’s Tsuzuru’s body in his arms. It’s Tsuzuru’s weight he holds close against him, the broken arm pressing against his ribs. It’s Tsuzuru who had fallen and got caught, but for some reason, Omi feels the exact opposite: this, the solid and yet frail body in his arms, feels like an anchor.

“Fushimi-san,” Tsuzuru whispers, half-muffled into the crook of Omi’s neck. Each syllable a fleeting kiss, soft and familiar. “I’m alright.”

It’s almost unbelievable, isn’t it, that just like that, he feels like he can finally begin to find his footing again?

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He breaks.

Like turning a lock of a dam gate, the words push everything out of him. He shudders, arms tightening around Tsuzuru, and the first low whine ripped from his chest like a lone and wounded animal, before the sobs bubble up his throat and the tears fall. 

He cries. Quiet sobs hard enough to shake both him and Tsuzuru, enough to let the low noises kept silenced within him escape. The lump of emotions, of everything that had been lodged painfully in his throat, everything that he’s been trying to push down and not feel ever since he knelt by Tsuzuru’s side on the asphalt—they overflow, rushing past him along with the tears and the sobs that rake his body, stealing his breath even as he tries to gasp for it, blubbers around the syllable of Tsuzuru’s name like a drowning man desperately trying to clutch on the last boat for safety.

He cries for the memory of red-blood asphalt, for the helpless guilt at all the words he still can’t answer, for the silence trailing off his name every time Juuza approaches him, for the surreality he’s tried to surround himself with. He cries for the relief, for the warmth pressing against him within his arms, for the safety Tsuzuru promises as his fingers curl into Omi’s jacket, and thinks, _thank God._

_Thank God, for not taking him away._

And through the sobs, through the incorrigible noises he buries into the brown strands, Tsuzuru stays. His fingers on Omi’s back hold onto him steadily, doesn’t even flinch when Omi presses themselves closer despite his broken arm trapped in between, his breath a constant rhythm against the line of Omi’s collarbone. Not a single word. A grounding presence that stays.

Holding on to that, Omi welcomes reality back.

**\------o0o-----**

In the hospital waiting room just outside Tsuzuru’s room, Juuza calls hesitantly, “Omi-san.”

Behind him, on the rows of white chairs, Sakyo and Chikage sit, each by the Director’s sides, heads together as they all look over some sheafs of papers. Tadoru stands by Sakyo’s side, and next to him making it a semi-loose circle are, surprisingly, Kazunari, Tasuku, and his older brother Fuyuki, casually standing with more papers in their hands. Everyone looks up at Juuza’s call, eyes finding Omi, and for a second, a complete silence falls.

Omi, eyes still red and probably swollen from crying, suddenly feels awkwardly too big in his own body.

“Um,” he says, turning to Juuza and trying for a smile. It comes easier, now, even if the curve feels uneven, but it’s worth it to see the relief in Juuza’s eyes. “Sorry, I took a while.”

Tadoru leans back almost lazily, but his smile is kind. Omi understands how he’s the oldest son of the Minagi family now. “I had everyone come here instead since Meguru had to go home. Need some time before you can join us?”

Omi takes a breath, sweeps a gaze over the small circle and thinks, Tsuzuru’s family.

 _Their_ family, too. They’d given him time, to get himself together. They’d let him dwell in the surreality of things, to take the distance he needs until now, and all Omi can think of is _Nachi, I have been so pampered_.

So he steels himself, steps forward to join the semi-loose circle and says, “No, it’s fine.”

Juuza settles on his left side, a silent supporting presence that Omi is grateful for. He closes his eyes, then thinks of the red-blood asphalt, of the books strewn over the sidewalk, of the moment the truck violently swept Tsuzuru’s body away from his sight.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s Chikage’s eyes that he meets.

“DId you see the guy too, Omi?”

The moment the girl behind Tsuzuru stumble forward, and the tall man in a blue hoodie that passes behind her, one hand casually pushing her.

Omi holds Chikage’s gaze, and says, “I think so.”

**\-----o0o-----**

This time, too, Tsuzuru kisses the tears away.

Omi catches those lips when Tsuzuru draws away, pulling him into a proper kiss that starts off rather desperate, but then softens into gentle pecks. Their breathing settle and match as their foreheads rest against one another, and Tsuzuru smiles at him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Omi closes his eyes. Breathes in the words, wishes he could keep them within him forever. Tsuzuru’s hand comes up to cup his left cheek, fingers sliding gently into Omi’s hair, and Omi follows the pull into another soft kiss.

“That’s why,” Tsuzuru whispers against his lips. “Please don’t be so far away.”

This time, it’s not a confession. Not a challenge, either. A simple plea, for Omi to stay close, even if he’s scared.

It’s almost laughable, really. Like Omi has a choice, when he couldn’t even stray farther than the four-steps distance separating them not even five minutes ago.

**——-o0o——-**

Within two days, Fuyuki comes over to the dorm with a victorious grin and a satisfying news.

“They got him,” he confirms, handing a folder of documents to Sakyo over the coffee table, who receives it without so much of a blink of an eye. “They should let you know in a bit, I can’t get any more news since this is going to another department’s investigation. They’ll look into who he’s working for. Here’s all I was able to get. Though you probably already have this information.”

“It’s always good to know that the police are doing their job,” Sakyo answers coolly. Chikage passes behind him, and he casually relays the document over to the Spring Troupe member. Chikage makes a thoughtful noise as he browses through it briefly, and then walks away with an airy “I’ll run this by Kazunari,” trailing behind.

Omi watches the exchange from where he stands in the kitchen, half-folded gyoza in his hands forgotten. Next to him, the DIrector huffs, sounding almost smug, and mutters, “That’ll show him not to mess with our Company. Seriously, we’ve got power on our side, too. Kazunari-kun’s network is impressive, and Ginseikai will _destroy_ you, Mizuno-kun isn’t pleased either, and Tadoru-san and Chikage-san _know_ people--”

Omi chuckles, mostly because he’s not sure if he should feel slightly disturbed at the efficient way their family is taking matters into their own hands or the fact that the Director is taking such pride in it. He thinks mostly it’s heartwarming, though, and Tsuzuru would no doubt be half-amused and half-horrified about it all.

So instead of saying anything, he leans back to catch Fuyuki’s figure sitting on the lounge’s couch, and asks, “Fuyuki-san, you’re staying for dinner?”

“No, don’t,” Tasuku pipes in from the dining table, while Fuyuki beams at Omi.

Omi laughs, and proceeds to make sure that everyone gets extra helpings of the gyoza nabe tonight.

**\-----o0o-----**

Tsuzuru’s reaction upon being told that the accident might not have been an accident after all, is only a wide-eyed, dazed, “oh.”

Kazunari closes his laptop, turning to Tsuzuru from where he’s perching on the chair by the bed that Meguru had previously left vacant. “That’s such a mild reaction, Tsuzurun,” he says disapprovingly. “Someone made an attempt on your life, y’know? I think it’s absolutely fine to freak out a bit about it.”

“I guess,” Tsuzuru shrugs, picking at the blankets over his thighs. “But it just doesn’t seem real.”

Omi makes a displeased noise, at the same time Juuza snaps out a harsh, “What,” and Kazunari protests, “You almost died!”

“That’s not what I meant!” Tsuzuru backpedals quickly, because honestly, having three people ganging up on you when you can’t move on a hospital bed is kind of scary, especially when two of them used to be actual delinquents. “And besides, I wasn’t—the doctor said my life was never in danger, so—“

“I’d rather not leave your well-being to luck,” Omi says, tone curt enough that Tsuzuru wisely bites back the rest of his words. 

“It’s just.” He pauses again, searching for the right words. “It doesn’t make any sense to try and, you know, get rid of me. Like. I’m me.”

Three pairs of eyes stare at him, unimpressed. Tsuzuru opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “I’m me, I’m—“

“You’re you,” Kazunari cuts in. “You’re the younger brother of a National soccer player, and the rising Mankai Company’s one and only playwright, lauded to be the Post-Hakkaku writer, who also wrote the successful Knight of Round’s stage adaptation’s script and regularly features in Mizuno Corporation’s promotional plays, including ones shown abroad.”

“—Villager C,” Tsuzuru finishes lamely. For a moment, silence falls among them, and Tsuzuru shifts uncomfortably. “I… guess when you put it like that…”

Omi steps away from the window and sits next to him on the edge of the bed. “Tsuzuru,” he says gently, “You’re you. Above everything you do, you’re you and that’s what matters to us.”

Tsuzuru’s lips twist. “But—“

“No buts!” Kazunari places both his hands on his hips, and it’s so clear that he’s trying to channel Yuki’s commanding attitude. It’s great. Omi has to smother his laugh. “If someone’s out for your family, you gotta protect them!”

“You can’t expect us to not do something about it,” Juuza mutters. “Tsuzuru-san’s important to us.”

The shade of red spreading across Tsuzuru’s cheeks is actually less fascinating than the way Tsuzuru blinks rapidly. Omi chuckles, leans sideways and knocks the side of their heads together, and breathes in the warmth that’s inherently Tsuzuru. “Can’t win this time.”

“Not trying to,” Tsuzuru mumbles, and he almost sounds exasperated, if it isn’t for the smile tugging on the corners of his lips. 

**——-o0o——-**

Tsuzuru comes home to the dorm after spending two weeks in the hospital and another at his own home.

Spring Troupe whisks him away for fancy sushi dinner celebration almost immediately, so the rest of the dorm only gets to celebrate his release from the hospital on the weekend after. Omi might have gone a bit overboard with the dinner spread, but Sakyo only gives him a stern look and lecture him about splurging for ingredients for about five minutes before patting him on the shoulder and leaving him in the kitchen, so everything considered, Omi thinks it’s actually fine. He tells Tsuzuru that, when the two of them find themselves alone on the balcony after dinner, and Tsuzuru laughs.

“Probably best not to make it a habit,” the younger man grins. “The lecture might be longer next time.”

“I’d much rather have a very different reason to celebrate,” Omi says, and steps into the space between Tsuzuru and the corner of the railings. Like a moth drawn to flame, Tsuzuru presses close, lets their arms flush against one another.

“Fushimi-san?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you. For not pushing me away.”

Tsuzuru’s eyes look three shades darker under the dim light of the balcony. Omi can’t not reach out—can’t stop himself from tilting Tsuzuru’s chin up and leans down for a kiss. It blooms a smile on Tsuzuru’s lips, even as Omi etches a silent _I-love-you_ there.

“I love you, too,”

He drinks in the words. Imagines them settling comfortably somewhere within his chest—a steady anchor that would not let him let go. He draws away, sees the happy smile on Tsuzuru’s face, and waits.

“Omi-san.”

**——-o0o——-**

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> me, as I started writing this: eh, probably will be less than 4k at most.  
> me, as I reached 5k: ....shit, i really wanna write Tadoru and Meguru  
> me, as I neared 10k: f u c k ????  
> me, at the end: oh cool i managed to keep it under 10k


End file.
